


Breath

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:43:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can feel John’s stupid pajama-tier-clothed legs on either side of you, and the tail end of John’s hood tickling one of your knees. You would be exasperated, if you had the capacity for that right now. But you’re far too aware of the one hand planted firmly next to your left shoulder, and the other resting on your neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosespirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosespirit/gifts).



> Thank you to stunrunner for beta'ing!

When you had a caliginous crush on John, you were convinced that loathing was the deepest, truest aspect of your pitch feelings. You should be enough of a romcom expert to know how utterly false that was. Even though the rivalry, the disgust, the wanting to beat the ever-living shit out of that pink-skinned idiot had faded, the desire to be with him had remained. Even though you banished your black feelings from your think pan like shadows under the hot Alternian sun at its zenith, the concuscipient base desire remains. You’re still fascinated by him, still grudgingly admire him - when he isn’t being a total cretin. And worst of all, you now trust him.

You trust him enough to let him do something you doubt you’d ever let a kismesis do, no matter how close you were to them, no matter how much you wanted this. You would never tell a kismesis that you wanted to be helpless underneath them like this, completely naked, eyes screwed shut and blood pusher pounding loud enough that you can hear each fuzzy, wet beat in your ears.

You can feel John’s stupid pajama-tier-clothed legs on either side of you, and the tail end of John’s hood tickling one of your knees. You would be exasperated, if you had the capacity for that right now. But you’re far too aware of the one hand planted firmly next to your left shoulder, and the other resting on your neck.

John’s touch is warm. His fingertips may be rough, but their touch is gentle as they massage either side of your throat, palm pressed right up against the esophagus. For now, he’s just barely applying pressure, but that could change any moment. One quick movement, and John could finish you right there.

He won’t actually, obviously, nor will he even severely hurt you, if only because humans are fucking pansies like that. Just knowing that he _could_ though makes your bulge thicken with desire and your nook throb with need.

“Remember how the first time we talked, you said ‘This is your god speaking’?” The way John imitates your voice is silly and embarrassing and part of you feels like it should make you angry but it just makes you feel even more at his mercy. “Bet when you said that you never expected things to end up like this!” You can _hear_ the smile in his voice though you refuse to open your eyes.

“I am your god,” you reply as best you can, throat feeling tight under his hand. He lifts his fingers slightly so you can talk unhindered, but you’re still hyper-aware of your skin, your arteries, your windpipe - every inch of your inarguably mortal, painfully fragile, completely exposed self. Your body, defenseless under John’s hand.

“I fucking made you,” you continue, and you’re impressed that your voice doesn’t shake. A little annoyance can save a shred of your dignity, apparently.”I made your all of your friends, your stupid little planet, your entire goddamn universe.”

“You made me, but you can’t unmake me! But,” he continues, lowering his voice, “I can unmake you. I can take your breath away.”

His delivery is as cheesy as the line itself, and wouldn’t be out of place in one of those dumb action movies he likes, a melodramatic but heavy-handed and frankly ludicrous attempt at dramatic dialogue. But as much as intellectually you know it, emotionally that ridiculous line doesn’t even process. It’s disregarded, it’s nothing. Words are nothing as your brain lights up with fear and desire as John’s fingers close around your throat.

He presses hard against your trachea with the space between his thumb and forefinger, and you can _feel_ your arteries pound against his fingers, and you feel so helpless, with these anatomical details that are far, far too similar between your species so he knows exactly what to do. He’s applying pressure and your throat hurts, and the pain floods out into your body. Your world is swimming.

In panic, your eyes fly open and you try to gasp, you can’t gasp. Your breath is stuck in your lungs and there’s nothing you can do. It’s all you can do not to struggle for a moment because you can’t fight him, no, you /won’t/ fight him, he’s John and even in your fear you love him and you _trust_ him. Your world is dim around the edges, fading, but the glint of his glasses and his doofy grin are still bright.

He releases you. You inhale sharply, almost choking on the air in your eagerness like a complete idiot - how can you choke on air? - and you don’t know what to do with your hands. You don’t know what to do with any of you. Stupidly you remember that you’re still naked, and he’s still clothed. John leans down, and you flinch, still sensitive and flickering fear in your blood pusher. But it’s ridiculous, of course, he’s only sliding his hand up to cup your cheek. He kisses you, wet and eager and _sincere_ , with no bullshit, no teasing, no nonsense, like he knows now isn’t the time.

Had you been caliginous for him, that sincerity would have fucking nauseated you. Sincerity was vulnerability, but here, maybe it was his small way of making the playing field just a bit more even, after what you just went through.

Maybe a small part of you does miss those black feelings you held. You figured out how to build up your defenses, and now to not have them simply stripped away, but freely abandoned, you feel more naked that the mere lack of clothes could ever achieve.

Now, every time you try to hide, he finds you. Every time you try to retreat behind your walls, he patiently tears them down. Every time you try to push him away, he gives you just enough space to let you breath and realize how much you miss him, and come running right back. You’re so deeply, unarguably, unexpectedly flushed for him and it scares the shit out of you. You love him, and you aren’t scared of him, but of your own feelings. Whatever happened to your loner phase, your complete inability at any and all quadrants, your tragic romantic hopelessness? Your long streak as the romantic fool has finally been broken.

You hold John’s shoulders as you lean up, pressing your tongue into his mouth, needing more. You want him, you love him, you need him. You fucked up his universe, you fucked up everything in the game, but you never could have imagined in all the dream bubbles in the Farthest Ring that you would ever fuck up so goddamn perfectly.

**Author's Note:**

>  _If you think you can reach out your hand_  
>  _Like all is well and nothing changed_  
>  _I went through hell to watch you in outer space_  
>  \- Loner Phase, Cold War Kids


End file.
